


the altar is your hips

by aliveanddrunkonsunlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/M, jaime "dances"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25228885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliveanddrunkonsunlight/pseuds/aliveanddrunkonsunlight
Summary: She doesn’t know how she ended up here.It’s New Year’s Eve. It’s going to be a year for new adventures. In her mind, those adventures had not included a man in a garish gold thong gyrating in front of her. Yet that’s exactly what is happening.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 175
Kudos: 316





	1. Brienne

**Author's Note:**

> This is sdwolfpup's headcanon, I'm just borrowing it. 
> 
> Also, I changed the Adonis/Apollo's belt/iliac furrow into the Warrior's belt, because I thought that fit Westerosi culture better. If you don't know what it is, a simple google search will tell you.

She doesn’t know how she ended up here. 

Well, that’s a lie. She does. Kind of. Vaguely. 

Through the effervescent high from champagne, Brienne goes along with Sansa and Margaery’s plans. It’s New Year’s Eve. She is starting the new year lighter, her ex-boyfriend Hyle becoming a distant memory as Margaery passes her drinks. It’s going to be a year for new adventures. 

In her mind, those adventures had not included a man in a garish gold thong gyrating in front of her. Yet that’s exactly what is happening. 

_Oh gods._

Margaery and Sansa are shrieking next to her, along with most of the other women in the club, hooting and hollering, but Brienne is mortified. She is slumped forward, trying to hide her face, which is on fire with blush. The stripper--the _man_ , she keeps trying to remind herself he’s a man, hoping it will quell her embarrassment--wears an easy, charming smile and has the body of a god. A broad chest which tapers down to chiseled abs and a perfectly sculpted ass, which he is not shy about shaking in front of a room full of women. He throws a wink in their direction, eyes glinting green and gold, tossing his blond hair as he struts towards a woman who is nearly crawling onstage in order to slip a dragon into the string of his thong. He gives them a perfect shot of his clenched ass as he squats down to accept it. 

_Seven hells._

Brienne swallows and leans into Margaery, “Do you want another round?” 

“The waitress will come by after he’s done!” Her friend yells over the music, pointing at the golden god. “Isn’t he fantastic?” Brienne doesn’t say anything because the man pulls himself up on a pole and is whipping his body around easily. One leg is extended in the air as he does so, toes pointed, the muscles in his legs flexing. She wants to bite his thighs. 

Her mouth goes dry and she abruptly stands, rushing to the bar before Margaery or Sansa can stop her. Other than the strippers, the men--the _dancers_ , she corrects herself--the club is run and managed by women. A petite redhead looks up as she approaches, offering a welcoming smile. “You’re really over here while this is going on? You should enjoy the show.” She nods towards the golden god on stage. 

Brienne glances behind her. Now he’s pulled a chair out to center stage. At first, she thinks he’s going to pull someone out of the audience to participate, but instead, he merely acts as if the chair was occupied, doing a very suggestive lap dance involving a lot of hip rolling and hair tossing. His skin glistens under the lights. There are so many things which should turn her off, but she can’t stop looking at him. The perfectly carved line of his spine, the way the muscles of his back ripple as he thrusts his hips. 

_Fuck._

“He’s not really my type,” Brienne says finally, turning back to the bartender. 

The redhead’s eyes widen, but a smirk pulls at her lips. “Whatever you say. What’ll you have?” As she prepares the drinks, Brienne turns back to watch him. His skin is too smooth and perfectly tan. He probably waxes every single hair on his body, except for those on his head. She’s not that into blonds and no doubt he spends hours in front of the mirror, an ego the size of the Summer Sea. So why can’t she take her eyes off of him?

Now he’s doing one handed push ups on stage. What a show off. He’s perfect. 

Her hands are large, her feet even bigger. Everything about her body is long. Her legs, her neck, her arms, her fingers and toes, even her damn torso. She’s always felt too big. Hyle was smaller than her and it made her incredibly self-conscious, wishing she could shrink herself by a few inches. Brienne pulls at the hem of the dress Margaery insisted she wear. It was much shorter than she would normally consider, but tonight was supposed to be about turning over a new leaf. A new Brienne. Except the new Brienne was supposed to fall for guys who were actually into her, not nameless male dancers who would probably never look at her twice on the street.

How would it feel to be sitting in the chair as this man danced around? While he oozes sex appeal, there is also an effortless air of charm about him, one which might make her feel at ease if she doesn’t die from blushing first. There is something in his eyes which makes her feel like she’s the only one in the room. What would those eyes look like, darkened with desire, as he touched her? 

_Stop._

Brienne downs her drink, barely aware of anything else other than him, lit by those stage lights. When she returns to her seat, Margaery grabs her arm and stuffs a 50 dragon note into her hand. “Slip it in, Bri!” Before she can object, her friend whistles at the golden god, who turns and struts to their corner of the stage. Brienne’s face is on fire, her hands shaking, unable to look away from his hips, aware of the deep lines carved into either side of his abs, like flashing arrows pointing straight down to the bulge in his shiny gold thong. _The Warrior’s belt._ The name is all too appropriate for this man, whose body looks like it was sculpted out of marble. 

Finally, he reaches down, taking the bill from her hand, his fingers warm and gentle. “Thank you, blue eyes.” His voice ignites sparks all the way down her spine, making her shiver. He winks, green eyes sparkling, before straightening and making the rounds to collect the rest of his tips from the thirsty all-female crowd.

Her head is spinning from the heat of his body, the booze flowing through her. She welcomes the cold air on her skin as she leaves the club, drops several ice cubes in her water when she gets home, trying to snuff out the desire she’s felt all night. Except when she closes her eyes, it’s him she sees.

She spends most of Sunday in bed with a hangover, dreading going to work the next day. Can still recall his voice, the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his ass. 

_You’re being ridiculous._

On Monday morning, she’s running behind, sloshing a half drunk cup of coffee into the sink and dashing out the door, nearly slamming into someone also leaving for work. Her neighbor prevents her from flying forward and crash landing on the concrete. Her hands sprawl across a toned chest, catching herself, and she glances up into green eyes. Brienne scrambles away like she’s been burned. “Hello, blue eyes,” he murmurs, chuckling. Her whole body flushes, blooms of blush creeping down her neck and across her chest. 

“You’re.” She squeaks, sure she looks absolutely pathetic, ogling him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show off those ridiculously tanned forearms. Even wearing clothes, he’s much hotter than she remembered. 

“I’m Jaime,” he says, that easy smile spreading across his face. “I guess we’re neighbors. I just moved in.” He reaches up to rake a hand through his hair. _This isn’t fair._ “What’s your name?”

“Br-Brienne.” Barely able to say her own name. Mortifying. Normally, she’d shake his hand, but she can’t be in close proximity to this man for too long, much less feel his palm pressed against hers. 

“Brienne,” he repeats, his voice soft, but it sets her aflame all over again. _Damn him_. “The other night, your friends paid me for a lap dance. A gift for you, but you left in such a hurry. Perhaps, now that we’re _neighbors_ ,” his voice dips dangerously low, a desire thrumming between her thighs. “We can find a time to make that happen.” 

“I-” she chokes. “I have to go. I’m already late.” Brienne rushes past him, furious at Sansa and Margaery. 

  
**

  
On Tuesday, he comes over. He gives her more than a lap dance. 

On Thursday, he invites her to his place. Brienne finds out he only dances on the weekends, for fun, and he has a boring office job, just like her. 

On Saturday, he tells her to come to the club. They fuck in the dressing room.

On Sunday, she wakes up beside him. 


	2. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he slides his belt off, Brienne actually relaxes into the couch, biting her lip. Seven hells, he thinks, momentarily distracted and missing his beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very silly, possibly even sillier than Brienne's POV. I wrote this rather quickly today, so any mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

What Jaime’s always loved most about dancing is the ability to disappear. He’s performing, but he’s not himself. He’s not Jaime Lannister, his father’s greatest disappointment. Not the son who clung to dance as a creative pursuit while Tywin pushed him towards business school. On stage, he doesn’t have to be a Lannister at all. He’s simply Jaime. 

He doesn’t usually notice the audience when he’s dancing. He _does_ , because eye contact is important, and feigning emotional interest is part of his job. And he’s good at his job. This one, at least. 

Generally, he knows the women who come into the club are older. Closer to his mom’s age if she were still alive. On the other side are the twentysomethings who bring their friends after bad break ups or for bachelorette parties. Margaery comes because she’s Margaery and their families have known each other for years and she likes pestering him this way. So on New Year’s Eve, when he sees her face in the audience, he doesn’t let it distract him. But it’s her friend that keeps pulling his focus. 

Those blue eyes. The way her lips wrap around the straw in her drink. The blush that rises in her face every time he catches her watching him. 

He keeps looking over at her when he shouldn’t, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Jaime finds himself wanting to talk to her and he never wants to talk to anyone after shows. But then she’s gone and Margaery and her redheaded friend follow soon after. 

And then Blue Eyes runs straight into him on Monday morning. She has freckles and an adorable scar along her upper lip. He slips into Confident Dancer Jaime and makes up some lie about owing her a lap dance. 

The next morning, he’s prepared. When she opens her door to leave for work, he’s waiting with coffee and a muffin. Blue Eyes--Brienne--looks at him if he might have poisoned both. “Why?” she stammers. “I’m sorry, that was rude.” Taking a deep breath, she manages to plaster on a polite smile. “Thank you. This is nice of you.” 

“I like to bribe my neighbors with coffee and baked goods,” he jokes. “Oh, wait.” He pulls out a pod of cream and a packet of sugar from his pocket. “I wasn’t sure how you take it.” 

“Usually with just a bit of milk.” She replies, a slight _real_ smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, but it’s something. “I’ll take the cream. You went to the effort.” 

“Do you have plans later?” 

Brienne freezes in her tracks, like a tall, gangly deer in headlights. “Why?” He realizes his charm isn’t going to work on her as easily as it does most women. 

“I thought you might want to cash in on your…” He glances around, as if their neighbors might be listening. “ _Dance._ ” She coughs, nearly spilling her coffee straight onto his shirtfront, but Jaime catches it, only a few drops grazing his sleeve. 

Brienne squeezes her eyes shut and takes a sharp breath in through her nose. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes and it’s the first time her voice hasn’t been full of doubt. It’s soft and gentle and he wants to wrap himself up in it like a warm blanket. “I’m such a klutz.” 

“It’s okay. I’m not a morning person either,” he brushes it off, giving her a wink. “But I would like to see you tonight, if that’s okay with you?” The wariness returns to Brienne’s features, even when he gives her his most reassuring smile. “You know what, you should text your friend, Margaery, she knows me.”

“Okay,” she nods. “I’ll let you know.” 

It’s all he needs. 

*

He expects her to blow him off, doubtful as she was, but when he steps into their building’s courtyard that evening after work, Brienne is sitting at the communal table, her feet propped up in the chair across from her, a glass of wine on the table. She glances up from her book, blue eyes studying him for a long moment, so long he nearly blushes, and he _never_ blushes. Jaime can see her mentally undressing him, and gods, it makes him want her all the more. “Brienne,” he tries to nod casually in her direction, but his voice has gone all husky. 

He has never ever ever slept with a customer before, but he so badly wants to get lost in those long, long legs of hers. Wants her to pin his arms down and-

“Come upstairs,” she whispers, a little too breezily, and Jaime wonders how much wine she’s consumed. 

Whatever bravado she had is gone by the time they reach her apartment, Brienne fumbling with the lock. He offers to hold her book and wine glass. “Brienne, we don’t have to do anything,” he insists as they step inside. “We can just talk.” _You’re an idiot._

“I don’t want you feeling like you owe me simply because Margaery paid you.” Jaime frowns and wonders if Brienne texted her friend after all. He assumed his lie would unravel rather quickly, but if she still believes he was paid for a lap dance then it can’t hurt to give her one. 

He’s not on the clock. It’s technically not breaking the rules. It’s just for fun. For practice. For flirting with this incredible woman standing in front of him with her arms crossed over her chest.

“There’s no owing,” he replies, shaking his head. “But I can, if you want.” He offers a nonchalant shrug, an easy smile. “The other night, you seemed interested.” Jaime cocks an eyebrow. 

Brienne looks panicked, but tries to recover. “Do you need anything? Water?” she asks, her voice pitching higher with each syllable. 

“Water would be nice.” He glances down at himself, still dressed in his work clothes. It isn’t ideal, but it would have to do. He _thinks_ he’s wearing his black fitted boxers. He hopes so.

Her hands are shaking as she opens the fridge, takes out the water pitcher, and pours him a glass. “Brienne,” he softens his voice and she looks over at him. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. This is just fun for me. I mean, the dancing is. But it’s really important to me that you’re comfortable. So if at any point you want me to stop, tell me. Okay?” Her eyes cannot get any wider, but he notes that they soften a little and her hands aren’t shaking anymore when she opens the fridge to place the pitcher inside. “Also, I legitimately would like to get to know you better, if that’s okay,” he adds. “We are _neighbors_. And you’re Margaery’s friend.” 

She tries to stifle her smile, but can’t quite manage it. “Yeah,” she ducks her head. “That would be nice.” 

Jaime tells her to make herself at home. Brienne chooses to sit in the middle of the couch. Normally, if they were in a private room at the club, she would be sitting in a chair, but right now, he doesn’t want to force her to do anything that might make her tell him to stop. He can work with the couch. 

Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he pulls up a song. Not necessarily the same kind he would dance to at the club, but a slower, sensual one. He walks out to Brienne, “Hi, I’m Jaime,” he introduces himself. He’s done enough lap dances for shy girls to know a simple introduction can put them at ease. “What’s your name, Blue Eyes?” 

“Brienne,” she replies, a shy smile on her face. 

“Nice to meet you, Brienne.” He presses a quick kiss to her cheek and she blushes. “I’m going to ask for your patience tonight, Brienne,” he says, slowly starting to swivel his hips. “This isn’t my typical wardrobe.” Despite whatever shyness she might feel, he has her rapt attention as he begins his routine, sticking to dance moves at first, nothing too sexual until she loosens up. As Jaime slowly unbuttons his shirt, he throws in a few body rolls, watching as blush spreads across her chest. 

When he slides his belt off, Brienne actually relaxes into the couch, biting her lip. Seven hells, he thinks, momentarily distracted and missing his beat. She doesn’t seem to notice, but when he begins to unbutton his pants, she sits up straight and quickly says, “I’ll pay double whatever Margaery gave you to keep your clothes on.” 

“So you don’t want me to take my clothes off?” He raises an eyebrow and the way she’s biting her lip and trying to avert her gaze is the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. 

“No, I--I do,” she stutters, her eyes widening in surprise at her admission. “But.” Her brow furrows and he immediately wants to reach up and soothe it, press a gentle kiss there. “I know it’s your job, but you don’t have to pretend. With me.” Her voice is quiet and he suddenly understands her reticence. It makes his heart ache. 

“Brienne,” he sighs. Jaime wants to tell her what he sees when he looks at her, but doubts she would believe him. Someone strong but with a soft, gentle heart. Shy, but powerful. Each of her traits, including the ones she dislikes, combine to make her beautiful. He can imagine his little brother rolling his eyes and saying, _You’re too much, Jaime._ He doesn’t want to be _too much_ for her. He wants Brienne to like him. “I’m not pretending.”

“But,” her chin trembles. “The money.” 

“Margaery never paid me. You left before…” He gives an easy shrug, telling her the truth. A grin spreads across his face as he places a hand on the couch beside Brienne’s head and leans in. He half expects her to stop him, a sudden hand on his chest, but then his lips are on hers, and she lets out a sharp gasp, then what sounds like a murmured _oh_ against his mouth. 

Her lips are soft and then she’s opening her mouth to his and kissing him, her hand fisting in the front of his shirt. He goes hard in half a second and he has to break apart from her before she pulls him completely into her lap. Not that he’s objecting. 

Her eyelids flutter open, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, lips parted, chest heaving. “Gods,” he rakes a hand through his hair, chuckling. “You’re perfect.” That makes her cheeks burn even brighter, red spots of blush blooming on her neck. 

“Jaime, don’t.” She manages to say and although Brienne is looking directly at him, part of her is hidden away somewhere, he can tell. 

“It’s not a lie, Brienne. Did that _feel_ like a lie?” he asks, referring to their kiss. 

“No,” she replies softly. 

“Do you want me to kiss you again?” 

She exhales. “Yes.” He does climb into her lap, then, because fuck it. 

Somehow they both end up stretched out on the couch naked, Jaime’s mouth nipping at her thighs. Her hands fly to his head, fingers tugging at his hair as his tongue finds her clit. Brienne is unable to stifle her cries, her whole body shuddering when she comes. He kisses the inside of her thighs, her knees, and draws himself up on his elbow, a pleased smile stretching across his face. 

“I hate you,” she says, her face red, but she’s laughing and then he kisses her. 

They stumble back to her bedroom and the next morning, he drops a kiss on her shoulder. “We should do this again. My place?” Brienne bites her lip, but nods, and he kisses her softly before he leaves. 

*

Jaime thinks about her all morning at work, several times he nearly gives in to temptation. By lunch, he has a dozen half-composed texts to her in his phone’s notes. 

She texts him after lunch. _Thank you for last night_. Followed by the blushing emoji. 

Wish I was still between your thighs, he almost texts back. _Too much, Jaime_. Instead, he types a polite, but flirty--he hopes--reply. _No need to thank me. Looking forward to seeing you again._ Followed by winky face emoji. 

He checks his phone every thirty seconds the rest of the day, his stomach sinking further and further each time there’s no response. Jaime always hits the gym after work, but today, Tyrion calls him with some silly crisis he’s perfectly capable of solving himself, so by the time Jaime shoulders his gym bag and heads inside, he’s cranky. When his phone pings as he’s changing in the locker room, he sighs, expecting a text from his brother. 

_How was the rest of your day?_ His heart zings. It’s Brienne. 

He does a silly victory dance before texting back, _Not as good as this morning. How was yours?_ Jaime walks out to the weights, worried she won’t understand what he means, itching to grab his phone and clarify. Instead, he cranks up his music and tunes out for half an hour. No response from Brienne. 

By the time he leaves the gym, he’s cranky and starving, but scarfs down a banana, hoping it will stave off his hunger until he gets home. Jaime nearly trips over a takeout bag in front of his door. He frowns, figuring it’s been dropped off at the wrong apartment, and bends down to check the receipt. A door opens and he glances up, Brienne leaning against her door frame. “You said it was your favorite,” she nods at the takeout. “But it might be cold by now.” 

“Uh, thank you,” he manages to reply, startled by the gesture. 

“You brought me breakfast the other day,” she explains with a casual shrug, but her face flushes. “See you tomorrow night?” 

Jaime smiles. “Yeah, that sounds great.” 

“Have a good night, Jaime.” 

“You too, Brienne.” 


	3. Girlfriend

**Five weeks later**

When Jaime’s alarm goes off, he groans and curls himself more tightly around Brienne. “Jaime,” she warns, the tinkling melody continuing to play. 

“I just want to stay in bed with you all day,” he mumbles into her shoulder. 

She sighs and reaches over to Jaime’s nightstand for his phone. Without really meaning to, she notices he has several texts. Some from Margaery, but a few from women she’s never heard of. Brienne stiffens, her heart pounding in her chest. She and Jaime have been...doing whatever this is for a little over a month, but the idea of him talking to other girls makes her heart sink. She shouldn’t be surprised. Jaime is gorgeous, charming, and witty. Whenever they go anywhere together, Brienne notices the way women--and a number of men--look at him. But even knowing the reality of her physical appearance versus his doesn’t make the idea of Jaime flirting with other women hurt any less. 

She sits up and tosses his phone towards him. “You have texts and you have to get up for work.” She dresses hurriedly, her back to him, but Jaime lets out a frustrated sigh. 

“Brienne,” he says softly, but she doesn’t glance back at him as she pulls on her shirt and picks up her bra off the floor, stuffing it in her bag. “Wait, stop. This isn’t what you think.” He blocks the door with his body and she tries to ignore his dumb bare chest and those tight red boxer briefs. His fingers wrap around her wrist, an attempt to soothe her, but she wrenches her arm away from him. 

“Don’t touch me,” she snaps. Her chin starts to tremble, but she will not let him see her cry, so she pushes past him, out into the living room. “I’m an idiot.” 

“I would _never_ do that to you. I would never do that to anyone.” If it was anyone else, she wouldn’t hear him out. She would simply slam the door and wish they weren’t fucking neighbors. Fucking neighbors who have fucked almost every night for the past several weeks. But there is a sincerity in his voice which makes her pause. “Please, stay for coffee. I’ll explain.” 

Brienne wipes angrily at her eyes, tears threatening to spill over, before she turns to him, his green eyes soft and apologetic, and gives him a stiff nod. She stands rooted to the spot where she’s standing, debating whether this is a good idea or not, while Jaime pads into the kitchen. When she smells coffee, she lets her bag slip off her shoulder, and takes a few tentative steps towards the kitchen. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, rifling a hand through his hair, which leaves it even more messy than his usual bedhead. She bites her lip to keep from giggling. Why did she have to go and fall for this infuriatingly handsome man who is so far out of her league? “Those women...they’re clients.” 

He turns to take down mugs out of the cabinet as Brienne tries to catch up. “Clients? But you’re a stripper, not an escort.” During their brief time together, she has never referred to what Jaime does aloud and as she does so now, realizes how insulting both of those terms sound. Brienne contemplates running out the door and to the safety of her apartment. 

Jaime, on the other hand, takes everything in stride. He doesn’t react right away, only pours them both coffee, and then fetches the milk out of the fridge, pouring it in his. “Yes,” he finally says. “I’m not an escort, but sometimes I do private parties. People hire male strippers, as I’m sure you know. But I should have said something about it sooner. I just didn’t think--” 

“No, it’s none of my business. I thought…” 

“I know, and I’m sorry.” He sets his mug on the counter. “Come here.” Brienne places her coffee on the kitchen island and steps into him, allowing Jaime to wrap his arms around her and press a gentle kiss to her cheek. His hand strokes up and down her spine, soothing her. She feels a little silly, both for the conclusion she jumped to and because she’s fully clothed while Jaime is nearly naked. _A hazard of the job._ She smirks at her own joke. “What are you smiling about?” he asks, chuckling, but then he’s brushing back her hair and kissing her and a few moments later, her shirt is whispering to the floor again as Jaime backs her up against the counter. 

Brienne’s late for work, but it’s definitely worth it. 

  
At lunch, she gets a text from Margaery. 

**MargTyrell, 12:45 p.m.** : Are you dating _JAIME LANNISTER_?

Dating is a generous word for what they’re doing, but Brienne has lost count of how many times she has spent the night at his apartment. One Sunday when she very badly needed to do laundry, she borrowed a pair of his sweatpants and has yet to give them back, even though every so often, Jaime grouses about them being his favorite. But if she wears them in front of him, he’ll stop complaining long enough to peel them off of her. 

She doesn’t know what to say to Margaery, exactly. 

**JLan, 12:45 p.m.** : Hey, I want to keep you in the loop about any private jobs I take. I turned down Margaery for one, so just a heads up that she knows about us now.   
**BTarth, 12:46 p.m.** : Yes, she already texted me. What did you tell her?

 **MargTyrell, 12:47 p.m.** : He said you were his GIRLFRIEND.

 **BTarth, 12:47 p.m.** : JAIME.  
**JLan, 12:47 p.m.** : WHAT.   
**BTarth** : You said I was your _girlfriend_?!  
**JLan** : 😘😳 I may have said that, yes. Did I not say that this morning?  
**BTarth** : NO, you did not. Perhaps because we were fighting.   
**JLan** : We were NOT fighting. That was merely a misunderstanding. And I apologize, again. 

**MargTyrell, 12:49 p.m.** : BRIENNE. Hello? Girlfriend? Girl. Friend. When were you going to tell me?

 **BTarth:** Next time please ASK me. I have to go.   
**JLan** : So that’s a yes then?   
**BTarth** : You’re lucky you’re cute.   
**JLan** : You think I’m cuuute. 

“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters under her breath, receiving stern looks from a couple co-workers in the kitchen. Brienne moves her lunch outside so she can call Margaery back in relative peace. There’s a lot of shrieking on Marg’s end and a million questions, some which Brienne doesn’t have answers to. 

She doesn’t respond to any of Jaime’s texts for the rest of the day. She’s not _mad_ , but she’s beginning to realize she doesn’t understand or know as much about him as she thought she did. 

When she gets home, there’s a large bouquet sitting outside her apartment in a pretty blue vase. No one has sent her flowers before, not even her father. Without looking at Jaime’s apartment across the landing from hers, she unlocks her door and picks up the vase, carrying them inside. There’s a card. On the front is a picture of two puppies snuggled together, asleep. Written on the inside in his loopy hand, “Would you do me the honor of being my girlfriend? xo Jaime”. Brienne may not get a lot of flowers, but she knows it isn’t the type of card a florist sends, so he must have picked it out. 

She crosses the landing to his apartment and knocks. He opens the door with a grin. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” she breathes, nerves bubbling up in her stomach. “Of course I’ll be your girlfriend, you idiot.” Jaime pulls her inside and kisses her as he shuts the door behind them. 

Later, when she is lying next to him, Brienne threads her fingers through his hair. Jaime blinks his eyes open. “Thank you for the flowers,” she murmurs. 

A slow smile spreads across his face. “You’re welcome.”


	4. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s always had a weakness for pretty men. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to go back and write some earlier stuff for them, so this is the Saturday after they met. (The Saturday mentioned at the end of the first chapter.)

**Saturday**

It’s late afternoon when her phone vibrates with a text from Jaime. Her stomach flutters. 

They’d fallen in bed together on Tuesday and he’d invited her over on Thursday, the evening ending in the same result. 

After sneaking back to her place in the wee hours of Friday morning, she laid awake until the sun came up, trying to slow her racing thoughts and desperate to tame her blossoming feelings. Brienne barely knows him and is uncertain what Jaime could possibly see in her. Not when he looks the way he does. 

She makes herself wait a few minutes before looking at his text, not wanting to appear too eager. 

**JLan, 4:57 p.m.** : Hey, blue eyes, I could use a favor. 

Brienne hates that she finds the nickname charming. She hates that she’s charmed by him in any way. But her inner irritation never manages to outwardly manifest itself, certainly not when she is face to face with him. Then she is distracted by the width of his shoulders, the way his eyes sparkle when he sees her. 

She’s always had a weakness for pretty men. 

_Don’t flirt._

**BTarth, 5:02 p.m.** : Depends on the favor. 

_Too late._

**JLan, 5:03 p.m.** : There are plenty of *interesting* favors I have in mind. This is not that, though. Sorry to disappoint.   
**JLan** : I’m at the gym, but was planning to go to work straight after and I picked up the wrong bag when I left. Could you bring my other bag to the club? It should be on the floor of my bedroom. A red duffel. There’s a key under the mat. 

It’s laughable how much all of this sounds like a bad idea. She most certainly does not want to step foot in the club. The mere thought makes the length of her body flush. Showing up at his dressing room. Him opening the door wearing only that gold thong. 

She _cannot_ go to the club.

 **BTarth** : I can bring it to the gym, if that’s easier.   
**JLan** : I’m almost done here. Gonna hop in the shower soon. Club works better. 

Damn him for making her think about his body glistening as the water of the shower sluices over it. Tossing his damp hair as he dries off. 

She’s in so much trouble. 

*

Brienne keeps telling herself that everything will be _fine_ , that she is simply helping a neighbor, but when she pulls into the parking lot of the club her stomach is twisted in knots. She grasps the duffel bag, hand shaking. Being here in the daylight is odd, like she is returning to the scene of a crime, but she follows the directions Jaime gave her, knocking on the back door that is painted black with the logo of the club stenciled onto it. To her dismay, the woman who opens the door is the same redhead who served her drinks on New Year’s Eve. “Um, I’m here to drop off something for Jaime?” 

“Sure, Jay told me to expect someone.” _Jay_. “He’s down that hall there,” she points past the entryway to a hallway. “Third door.” 

“Thanks,” Brienne’s voice is hushed as she brushes past her. The hallway is lined with old fashioned style posters advertising burlesque shows, one proclaiming an act was “Man’s Ruin!” 

This damn man is already her ruin.

She reaches Jaime’s dressing room and knocks, her throat so tight it hurts to swallow. He swings open the door with a dramatic flair, dressed in a very soft black robe. “You brought it! I owe you.” He takes the bag from her and after a moment, Jaime’s eyebrow arches up at her, a playful smile slowly spreading across his face and Brienne realizes she’s been standing there awkwardly, saying nothing. “Do you want to come in?” 

“Uh,” she stammers. 

“You don’t have to. Thank you for bringing this, though, really. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been much of a show.” His words are a clear indication of the bag’s contents. She had barely looked around Jaime’s apartment, focused only on getting the duffel, and she certainly had not considered what was inside it. His dancing clothes. And his thong and… Brienne has to brace herself against the doorframe. “Are you okay?” His smile shifts into concern. “Come in.” Jaime steers her towards a small couch in the corner of the room. He walks over to a small minifridge and produces a bottle of water, which he hands to her. 

She takes a sip, taking in the rest of the room. Diagonally from the couch is a large dressing room mirror with lights lining it. Jaime stands in front of it, turning a director’s chair towards her before sitting down The robe he’s wearing is long, but it hikes up when he sits and spreads his legs. Her gaze lingers on the length of golden skin exposed, the muscle in his calves. 

“I don’t want to assume anything,” he lets out a little sigh, but when Jaime continues, his tone is gentle. “But I am guessing me being a dancer isn’t exactly something you’re comfortable with, and I think--”

“No.” The word falls out of her mouth, as if it might stop him from saying he doesn’t want to see her anymore or whatever gentle way he was clearly going to use to break things off with her. “Sorry, I didn’t…” she shakes her head, suddenly unsure about everything. 

“Go ahead,” he tells her, his green eyes soft. 

Her face burns with embarrassment to have his rapt attention. “You’re right, I’ve never dated…a dancer before, but I--” Her chin trembles and she hides it by taking another sip of water, trying to force her thoughts away from cruel things people have said about her body. “I would understand if you don’t want to keep seeing each other.” It was a generous title for how things have unfolded between them. For all Brienne knows, she’s a girl he fucked a couple of times, that was all. 

“Are you joking?” Jaime is leaning forward, eyes wide. 

“No,” she replies, shaking her head. 

“I meant what I said the first night, Brienne.” She nearly crumbles at the way he says her name, all gentle and low in his throat. “Nothing about this thing--whatever this is between us--is pretending for me. I like you. Do you know how rare that is for me?” Her neck burns and she knows the rest of her body is likely splotched red with blush. She raises her eyes, studying his face. Brienne has been the object of his ease, his charm enough to know this isn’t that. It’s earnestness and honesty. 

Enough for her to want to drag him out of that chair. 

“Brienne?” This time, there’s a rawness in his voice, a barely contained _something_. 

The energy of the room shifts, and suddenly she’s standing before him, her hands bunched in the fabric of his robe as he kisses her. Brienne’s fingers slip low, untying the belt, and pushing the robe off his shoulders. _Fuck_. He’s naked and her hands cannot travel fast enough, wanting to explore every inch of him. 

Everything between them is hurried, her shirt flung across the room, her pants following soon after. Brienne’s flushed skin marked by Jaime’s mouth as he plants a series of heated kisses down her body, all breath leaving her when he presses his lips to the inside of her thigh. He looks up at her, eyes asking permission, but she tugs at his shoulders until he stands. “I noticed you,” he tells her in between kisses as he walks them backwards towards the mirror. “That first night. I couldn’t stop watching you.” Her back presses into the ledge of the vanity, his hands gripping at her hips. “Brienne,” he rasps, flicking his tongue over his lips. “The mirror is right there.” Jaime nods behind her and presses his mouth to her ear. “I want you to see how amazing you look.” 

For a moment, their frenzied desire catches up with her, realizing they could very well be caught, but her unbridled lust for Jaime overpowers her normal level-headed self. “Yes,” she replies in a breathy moan which sounds so unlike her. Brienne turns away from him, bracing her hands against the vanity. 

They’re both a little too tall for this, but she doesn’t care about anything other than feeling him inside her. She carefully avoids her own reflection until Jaime has slipped on a condom and then he’s sinking deep with the first thrust, both of them letting out satisfied groans. Over her shoulder, his eyes burn hot and dark, and her stomach clenches, knowing that look on his face is for _her_. 

He drapes himself over her back so he can murmur in her ear, “I told you.” Jaime can’t stop smiling as he pulls out and thrusts into her again, Brienne baffled at how his face can contain such hunger but kindness at the same time. “I fucking told you,” he groans. 

She reaches back, her palm against his cheek for a split second, mumbling how good he feels. His left arm is wrapped around her side, hand splayed across her stomach, holding her tight as he pounds into her. 

Brienne arches her back and uses her grip on the vanity to push her hips into him, a spluttered “fuck” falling from his lips. She repeats the movement and this time he’s practically begging her, their skin slapping together as she encourages him. 

His left hand shifts lower, two fingers pressing over the ridge of her cunt, just above where he is moving in and out. “Jaime,” she gasps, her hand covering his and guiding him. She’s nearly forgotten about the mirror, but all inhibitions left her a long time ago, and she cannot tear her gaze away now, watching as he drives into her, her eyes fluttering closed only when her orgasm washes over her, clutching at the vanity. 

He comes shortly after, hips tight against her ass, her name on his lips. There is the heated weight of him as he collapses against her back, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade. As she watches him in the mirror, everything begins to sink in, the reality of what they’ve done hitting her. She lets out a laugh, dropping her head. “I can’t believe we just did that.” 

Jaime straightens, an embarrassed grin sliding over his face. When he runs a gentle hand down her spine she forces herself up, too, both of them moving about the room slowly, still in a sex fueled haze. Once she’s dressed and he’s shrugged back into his robe, Jaime sidles up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and turning them so they’re reflected in the mirror. “So, how did we look?”

Brienne watches as her cheeks pinken, but can’t prevent the smile on her face as she meets his gaze. “Pretty damn good.” 


End file.
